Despite the shattered remnants of her heart, she knew she had made the right decision. Peter would undoubtedly hate her for her callousness, but she also knew that he wasn’t an unfair man. As soon as the fog of grief lifted, he would see the wisdom of her decision and, she hoped, not hate her too much.
Although she knew it was coming, she still jumped when the lock slid back on the cell door, heralding the arrival of the new day.
“Up,” the gaoler ordered, dragging the man closest to the door onto his feet and out of the room. Five of the men were manacled to him, and had no choice but to lurch awkwardly to their feet and shuffle after him.
Jemima waited her turn and followed. She wasn’t manacled to the others, most probably because they knew she would hardly be able to move under the weight of the heavy ironwork around her hands and wrists.
As she stepped out into the long corridor, she knew she wouldn’t be returning to the condemned cell. Given the fate that awaited her, the claustrophobic darkness suddenly didn’t seem all that bad. She had the wild urge to run back into the gloomy depths and stay there.
Squaring her shoulders, she ignored the tracks of tears on her grimy face and stared stoically at the back of the man’s head before her as they shuffled down the corridor to a side room. Inside, a single table laden with nine plates of steaming food sat waiting for them. The aroma of cooked vegetables, the only decent food they had been given since their arrival several days ago, teased their nostrils.
Despite her hunger, Jemima couldn’t swallow any of it. She tore off a piece of the chunk of stale bread beside her plate and chewed absently, watching the faces of the men around her. She didn’t know if they were fully aware of what lay in store for them. Throughout the ordeal they had been a reticent bunch. Briefly she wondered if they all knew Scraggan. They had all been there on that night. They had all looked as shocked and horrified as she had when they had been carted off to gaol. During their trial, each man had repeatedly declared they had been innocent, and set up.
Even if she did learn the truth about that night, there was nothing she could do about her own fate, let alone theirs. It was too late.
Unable to force any of the food down, she simply sat and waited. When they were finished, they were visited by the vicar who prayed with those who wished to pray for forgiveness. Some of the men began to weep as the realisation of their situation rose before them.
Having lost her faith some time ago, Jemima simply remained quiet, strangely detached from everything. When the gaolers ordered them to move again, she shuffled after the line of men. As she left the room, her eyes met and held those of the gaoler who had been present in Mr Simpson’s office earlier. There was something strange about the way he always seem to be watching her, ever present, silent and watchful.
While standing in line to have her manacles removed, she could feel his eyes boring into her back. She knew if she looked over her shoulder, he would be there; waiting. She shivered and fought off the strange feeling of unease that swept through her.
Whatever he was doing didn’t really matter anymore, she thought, shuffling forward a couple of steps. Even over the clanging of the ironmonger’s hammer, they could hear the rumble of the chattering crowds gathering around the gallows. It was a special occasion, and some people had taken a rare day off specially to watch the hangings.
Small shafts of sunlight valiantly attempted to penetrate the cloying gloom within the dank building, as the men had their iron manacles hammered off before their hands were tied behind their backs.
Jemima glanced down in horror at the small black piece of cloth that was held out to her when her manacles had been taken off. She carefully did as she was instructed and tied her hair up, before having her wrists tied behind her back.
A fine tremor of horror settled over her, and she knew she was beyond weeping; beyond feeling anything other than a sense of loss so deep, she knew her only chance of finding peace was through death. If she remained alive now, she would be forever changed.
Silently she sent a prayer heavenwards that Dominic and his brothers had been true to their word and taken Peter far away. She wouldn’t look for him in the crowd. She couldn’t.
With the formalities over, they were ushered into a long, dark corridor that was very similar to the one that led to the condemned cell, but with a door at the opposite end that led outside to the front of the gaol.
At first Jemima was at the front of the queue and was quickly held back by the gaoler who had been watching her. Fear had locked in her throat and she was unable to voice the questions she wanted to ask as she turned to him, her eyes full of questions he refused to answer. She stood back and waited as the men shuffled one by one before her and then it dawned on her why she was being kept until last. Obviously the sight of a woman being hanged held far more importance than she had realised, and they wanted to make the crowds wait for the spectacle
.
On legs that trembled violently with fear, Jemima waited at the end of the queue. Somewhere in front of her, one of the men began to weep and plead for his life. They all jumped as the door at the end suddenly opened, and the small space was suddenly filled with a cacophony of shouts and screams of the crowd.
The first man was dragged unceremoniously outside, his vociferous protests ignored as the door was slammed closed behind him, encasing the corridor in darkness once more.
Jemima closed her eyes and tried not to listen, but with silence inside the gaol, it was impossible to block out the raucous calls, crude suggestions and cries of horror. The loud slamming of wood, followed by the cheers of the crowd, were impossible to ignore.
Tears gathered in her eyes and for a moment she had to lean against the wall, or else fall to the floor in a wailing heap.
“Are you all right?” The gentle question came from the ever-watchful gaoler. Jemima stared at him blankly, unable to answer.
Alright? Alright? She would never be alright again. Silently she shook her head and returned her gaze to the floor. It seemed to take an age before the door opened again and the corridor was flooded with daylight once more.
How long she stood in the corridor, waiting for her turn to be put to death, she couldn’t be sure, but she was certain she had aged a thousand years before there was just her and the man before her left in the confined space. The crowd outside were baying louder than ever. The slamming of the gallows floor echoed menacingly time and again as the Crown meted out its justice. Cries and screams were accompanied by suggestions and shouts of denial from family members who had come to the hangings to hang on to their loved ones’ legs, and ease their suffering.
“Pull the other leg,” was shouted over and over, until Jemima couldn’t stand it any longer and began to weep openly.
Suddenly the door opened, and the man before her was dragged out into the morning sunshine. The heavy thud of the wooden planks only a few feet from her face made her cry out in horror. Her stomach flipped as she began to shake. She was so intent on keeping herself under control that she missed the silent motion of the gaoler toward the shadows.
“Move up,” he ordered, nudging her toward the door.
Slowly Jemima did as she was told. She had learned on her arrival at the gaol that if she didn’t follow orders, she would be dragged through them anyway. It was far less painful simply to obey.